3. I have experienced atheism as a rather unwelcome
visitation that was not foisted on me by atheists, who had never attempted to
rid me of belief in God, though I had known atheists. An atheist would have
failed at it, had one of them tried. Then the idea of choice would have been
inherent. The atheism I underwent I did not choose. It was foisted on me by my
exclusion in a spiritually-oriented group I belonged to. It mounted to my feeling
not welcome—unprecedented for me—to participate in community prayer and
possibly in public worship in any form. My exclusion was very unpleasant while
it lasted. I felt forced to wear a helmet of stone. The imaginary helmet weighed
like stone and covered that part of my forehead known in Hinduism as my god’s
eye. I referred to my ordeal as “involuntary atheism,” and once, my brother
expected me to try to describe it. Privately-educated Catholics ignored my
having a brother. Syncretic Catholic Linda criticized my trip to see him in California
in 2009. I incorrectly thought why. My life and inheritance remain unopposed to
theirs. I attributed my discontinued belief to cult damage. I lived as a
spiritual exile over more than seven, perhaps ten years. I took refuge in rereading
the poetry of two American masters. One, a member Transcendentalist, seemed during
my black-out maturity heartbreakingly expired in spirit, though in poetry she
has no better. I read there God in His jealousy had withdrawn her worship. Later,
I felt restored to my belief pattern of "agnostic.” My restoration did not
greet me as a “miracle.” I just felt like myself again. I survived killers’
predictions. One of the would-be killers compares to Job’s Wife in the Bible,
as Frank Kermode describes Her line in an essay. Instead of dying—as programmers
obedient to Cynthia Macdonald and Catholic Sandy tried to order it, contrary to our
link to what may be a common God—I became restored to beliefs that were mine before
I met them, aimless, silly programmers. I remembered my sense, without its initial
joy, that travel is the wandering Voltaire inscribed. Joy is not a belief, all-y’all father-fuck'ng, no-account no-writes.

Monday, September 08, 2014

I feel tired of throwing that issue of Time across the room. RAPE: The Crisis in Higher Education by Eliza Gray. I have planned since first rejecting Gray's understanding of a system to write a critique of her sense of playtime as she records it in Time. The roundup of opinions called The Debate: How should college campuses handle sexual assault? is worth reading and is fair. Gray's feature article is a religious editorial that I feel required by Foucault to critique.

Gray defends the city of Missoula, the campus of the University of Montana, and its young men on campus, except six per cent of them as determined by social screening of their attitudes on campuses elsewhere. Gray's real call-out is of campus victims who equal 20% of campus women.

I believe Gray's target victims were softened prior to college attendance, in high school, or before high school. Their armors against War were not smelted by college, and indemnity ensued. She faults women's heavy drinking for the surge in campus crime. She faults a devil who appears on one of his shoulders, who encourages him—is he of the six per cent of intent sex abusers on campus or of the majority who are good at heart?—to have sex with a girl who has passed out. An angel suddenly appears on the man's other shoulder that persuades him to let the drunk girl sleep uninterrupted, perhaps to snore or even to drool a little.

In real life, rape occurs to the sober. Rape is the exchanging of a first name on the first rape night out. Rape is a consequence of color. Rape is off-campus. Rape is slightly daft, slightly smart. It is a campus amenity.

These days, penetration that is unwelcome, however slight, defines it.

Repeat victims are most aware of it. Victims are liberals and were trained early against racism. They duck reporting grievances on campus or off campus in their fear that to report crime is racist, even though they may realize that not to report crime is illegal. Reliable statistics, as staggering in number as they are, including statistics about falsely-reported crime, are on David Duke's website. Eliza Gray's perpetrators are good guys who heeded the devil on their shoulder that single night when the strange, snoring, passed-out, drooling drunk girl spread herself haphazardly lengthwise and became a willing corpse to their or the rare bad guy's one-time necrophiliac sensibilities. That night leads, unfortunately, without exception, to her extinction and curtails her furtherance in life. That is as Eliza Gray would have it in her optimism for college as a wonderful, sexy head start in life. The wicked silence in the victims had better come forward and leak, pronounce itself in time for closing date Time, lest the other eighty per cent of campus women should have to admit to knowing them. Victims, according to Gray, are not activists but are uncooperative girls earmarked for sacrifice who live in dishonest hiding.